


Preludium

by Sectumsempra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:24:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12058944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sectumsempra/pseuds/Sectumsempra
Summary: This is where they begin.





	Preludium

” _No_ _one_ _can_ _have_ _a_ _higher_ _opinion_ _of_ _him_ _than_ _I_ _have,_ _and_ _I_ _think_ _he's_ _a_ _dirty_ _little_ _beast._ _”_

 

  
”Get on your knees, Sebastian,” Jim says, purring the name in a way that makes it sound like a filthy word, and Sebastian does – there aren't many things he wouldn't do for Jim, and the things he wouldn't want to do Jim could probably make him do anyway, but this isn't one of those things – and Jim is the only man he'd kneel for, the only man he'd give head in a filthy back alley, and as he does, gets down on the ground - still wet from a recent downpour - he feels dirty just the right way, and it has never before seemed like a privilege to get to feel this cheap but Jim, Jim twists the world around them till the spot they're standing in is the only place that makes any sense, they're in the eye of the storm, watching everything spin and spin around them -  
  
and so Sebastian takes Jim in his mouth and the fact that Jim leans back against the building behind them for support is in itself a goddamn _victory_ because Jim's knees never goes weak, and there in the alley with his jeans soaked through and a hand in his hair holding him in place, with the sounds of London like a soft soundtrack in the distance, everything is just fucking _perfect._  
  
-  
  
As he comes out of the main hall of the warehouse, the used-to-be storage facility now serving as an underground fight club, there's someone waiting for him. A man a head shorter than him, dark-haired and in a suit that looks tailored, is standing by the exit. He looks at Sebastian in a way that causes him to assume this is someone who has bet money on him and lost, and is now planning to make him pay; literally or otherwise.  
  
The man isn't armed – and really, who'd want creases from wearing a gun in such a suit – and doesn't look like the kind of man who would go at someone with his fists, but something about him still makes Sebastian tense, makes him suddenly aware of the weight of his gun, the feel of the metal against the skin of his back. In the dim space the man's eyes are nearly black.  
  
He means to leave, but the stranger places himself in front of the door. They're alone, the sounds of the ongoing fight, the cheering from the crowd muffled yet still too loud for Sebastian's ringing ears. He shouldn't have gone up against that last fellow but he just can't _stop_ himself, can he.  
  
He could easily move the other man out of the way, wouldn't even need his gun, but he's not stupid. Someone who could afford a suit like that could afford bodyguards. Armed ones. Likely posted just outside, listening for signs of trouble.  
  
“Didn't realize they got themselves a bouncer,” he says.  
  
”Sebastian,” says the other man. Softly, not like a question, rather as if he is testing what it feels like on his tongue. As though it's a foreign name he isn't sure how to pronounce. The names of the fighters are called out before every round so the fact that the man knows it isn't odd in itself, but the way he says it makes Sebastian hesitate before he confirms.  
  
”Yes?” He fetches the package of John Silver he keeps in his back pocket and takes one out, lights it. Eyes the immaculately dressed man and feels filthy in his old, worn jeans and blood-stained shirt. Dirty with his face speckled with dried blood, his stubble more crimson than blonde when he, in the toilets a few minutes earlier, had checked the state of his face. (Not too bad, considering.)  
  
He doesn't know it at the time, but it's not the last time the man before him will make him feel this way, cleaned up or not.  
  
The man tilts his head to the side and eyes Sebastian like a product he's not sure he wants to purchase.  
  
”Listen, _sir,_ _”_ Sebastian says when the silence has stretched on for a tad too long, does say sir because it seems like the kind of thing this man is used to being called, but spits it out, trying his best to make it sound like an insult. ”What is this about? If you bet on me and lost and decided I need to pay some way or another... let's get it over with, hm? After this smoke I'm heading home, I need some goddamned painkillers, my jaw hurts like you wouldn't fucking believe.”  
  
The man smirks, does so in a way that sends chills down Sebastians's spine and leaves a cold pool in the pit of his stomach, and he has to tell himself to _get your shit together for fuck's sake,_ because he's been in mortal danger more times than he can remember and this man is doing nothing, is just measuring him up. Then again you can't defend yourself against an attack that isn't coming.  
  
”I'm sorry,” says the man, not sounding sorry at all, ”it's James. Moriarty.” He says it with pause between the first and last name in a way that makes Sebastian think _Bond._ _James_ _Bond,_ ”Jim.”  
  
”Moran,” says Sebastian, assuming _Jim_ at least doesn't know his last name, but the other man responds by rolling his eyes, saying;  
  
”Well _duh_.” A little simper. ”Now, I'm not stupid, and I'd have to be to have bet on you in that last round, no offense...” Jim doesn't sound as though he gives two shits about whether Sebastian takes any kind of offense. His tone goes up and down in a sing-song kind of way and it should make him seem ridiculous, silly, but it just adds to the air that he has about him, something that causes some primal instinct in Sebastian to tell him to _make no sudden moves,_ the way you would know to try and stay calm did you almost step on a Cobra. The fact that he can pull this off is absolutely fascinating. Sebastian finds he can't look away. Just like when a fight is going on and you know it's going to end badly for one of the fighters and you couldn't be paid not to watch it to the end, you just can't wait till the weaker guy is on the ground, not dead but lifeless and broken. It's like that.  
  
He's been so bloody bored lately. At the moment he's not bored at all.  
  
”He wasn't that much bigger,” he comments, aware it makes him sound like a cranky child.

”No, he wasn't, was he...” says Jim, voice trailing off, and makes it sound as though, because of this, Sebastian sucks that much more for losing. Sebastian lured himself into that trap, didn't he, but it still pisses him off, yet the thought of giving this little fuck a hard right hook before he can say another word doesn't even cross his mind, it's only later that he ponders that. ”And you,” he continues, ”you knew you'd lose, you naughty boy.”  
  
Sebastian cocks an eyebrow. Has to give up and drop his cigarette butt – he's practically been smoking nothing but the filter the last half minute – and it leaves his hands unoccupied and awkward. His hands; used to holding cigarettes and guns and resting on triggers, knuckles used to brushing against soft skin over hard bone, sometimes bruising, used to curling around body parts in bad ways and in good ways; not doing anything makes them restless.  
  
And so he reaches back for his gun as he sits down on a pile of pallets that's conveniently stacked close to the exit. He has a feeling this could drag out.  
  
Looking up, he finds Jim is watching the weapon in his hands as if it were a toy, a piece of plastic not capable of any damage.  
  
”Now why would I go into a fight I know I'd lose?” he asks.

”Maybe,” says Jim, again in a voice resembling that of a sardonic child, ”you _like_ _it_ when it hurts. Just a teensy bit you _want_ to bruise and bleed and _ache_.” He closes his eyes and sighs as though enjoying a particularly pleasant mental picture, ”Oh I love that in a man...”  
  
There is a second when he opens his eyes and in the dim light they're absolutely black, and he's come close enough to force Sebastian to crane his neck to look up at him, and the expression in his eyes as they for a moment linger on Sebastians bloody jaw, as they follow the track of dried blood going from his nose, past his lips and down his Adam's apple, Sebastian thinks this meticulous man will actually attack him, though he isn't sure in what way - it could be to tear his throat out or his clothes off – perhaps both. Not necessarily in that order.  
  
”With all due respect, _Jim,_ ” he says, as he realizes he claimed to be leaving after that cigarette and now here he is, just seated and ready for this to take all night, ”what's this about?”  
  
“This, mister Moran” – he lingers on Sebastian’s last name for a bit, again as if to test what it feels like, tastes as it passes his lips, and it gives Sebastian goosebumps, God help him but it does – “is about you needing a job and me needing jobs done. I’d say we’re a match made in heaven but... considering the nature of these jobs I suppose that's not quite true...”  
  
And of course he needs work, not just of financial reasons but also because his fingers are itching and because he is _so_ _fucking_ _bored,_ but how the hell does this little creep _know_ -  
  
“Do I look that out of cash?” asks Sebastian.  
  
“Well, for one thing, you get beat up for money.”  
  
Sebastian simpers.  
  
“If you had any idea how many men in there comes right from their offices and high-end jobs –“  
  
“Only two of the contestants,” says Jim, “but then of course most of the audience... Needing some blood and violence before going home to their wives, making sweet love and kissing their kids good night. Just like in the movie, isn’t it?”  
  
“How could you _possibly_ know what the fuck they do for a living?”  
  
“Oh I just… do.” The man shrugs. Sebastian decides not to pry, lets it go.  
  
“So what kind of jobs are we talking about?”  
  
“Well, you _are_ a sniper, aren’t you?”  
  
Sebastian finds himself chuckling, shakes his head.  
  
He usually get jobs through people who knows people and by customers giving his name to other potential customers – but the name Jim Moriarty has never come up. For a moment he considers the possibility that this man is undercover police, wired and ready to have Sebastian admit to his sins, but he just doesn't get police vibes, and he's good with that sort of thing. Reading people. _If_ Jim is undercover he's good enough at playing the role that being arrested by him wouldn't be too embarrassing. He doubts it, though.  
  
The muffled sounds of voices are suddenly turned up as the doors to the arena opens and people start to flow past them. Jim watches him with that feline glint in his eyes for several long minutes till the crowd has passed, leaving them in absolute silence. Sebastian gets to his feet, which allows him to look down at the other man. A small satisfaction.  
  
He puts the gun back in its place, crosses his arms over his chest.  
  
“If you’re trying to impress me by knowing shit you shouldn’t know, _touché,_ you got me. Now if you have actual work – and enough money to afford me - I’m listening. I still need some fucking painkillers, though.”

“I know your mommy probably taught you not to get into cars with strangers, even if they say they have candy – which, for the record, I do – but if you do, I’ll take you to my place and we can discuss what I need over a jar of _gourmet_ painkillers.”

Sebastian ponders over the risk that he’s being lured into a trap, but can’t for the life of him see why this guy would research him just to get him into his car and kill him, seems like there are easier ways to accomplish that -  
  
and most importantly he is so wonderfully not bored. There's _something_ about Jim that puts him on edge in the most wonderful way, seeps like heat through his veins. He has to know. What it is. The risk of harm being done to him seems like a small one to take, hell, one he is _eager_ to take just to still his curiosity, even if curiosity did kill the cat.

 “Let’s go.”  
  
A black SUV drives up beside them as they exit. Jim having a chauffeur comes as no surprise. The lack of armed men is another matter; it means that being smaller, unarmed and alone, all sarcasm and cocky smiles, knowing about the many skeletons in Sebastian's closet, Jim still dared get in his way.  
  
Interesting.  
  
They get in the back seat, Jim offers him Finnish licorice in the form of pipes with pink sprinkles on them, and Sebastian who doesn't really like licorice accepts one anyway because at least it gives him something to do with his hands; these restless ones of his.  
  
-  
  
The hotel isn't the high-end type of place he expects. Upon entering he judges it to be three-star at best. The kind that has small soaps in pretty wrapping in the bathrooms, but ones with harsh, chemical scents.  
  
It doesn't make him doubt Jim has money, obviously the man has money, but it makes him wonder.  
  
“You paranoid, James?” he asks as they approach the elevator.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Thought we were going to your place. Don't like to let strangers know where you live?” Jim smiles a little, presses the button with the number six on it. Looks at Sebastian with his head tilted.  
  
“I live in many places, Sebastian. This is one of them.”  
  
As they ascend, as the red light that marks what floor they are on goes from one to two to three, Sebastian watches Jim's profile out of the corner of his eye and thinks about how usually, going home with someone this time of night, it wouldn't be to discuss job opportunities. He wouldn't be averse to engaging in other things than conversation with Jim either, when he thinks of it. Would be lovely to tear at that suit, leave it in crumples on the floor.  
  
Tonight though, he's in too much fucking pain to go there. What with his jaw feeling like it's been unhinged he's not going to be able to do much good with his mouth. Perhaps another time.  
  
The hotel room is like any hotel room, has crisp white sheets and a thick, square telly apparently not exchanged since the early nineties. Two armchairs, a cupboard, a wardrobe – the usual stuff. At least it's also got a balcony with a bit of a view.  
  
Jim gestures for him to sit, disappears into the bathroom and comes out with a small package that he throws to Sebastian; the painkillers he had been promised. He inspects the package. Recalls having gotten the same kind prescribed after having a bullet removed from his leg the previous year.  
  
“Just out of curiosity...” he says, “How come you have painkillers of this caliber lying around?”  
  
“Oh you know... sometimes I play a little too rough with my toys.” Jim passes behind his chair, and suddenly he's up close, his breath hot on Sebastian's neck, and he says in a low voice; “... and sometimes I need those toys to be on top of their game the morning after.”  
  
He thanks the godawful ache in his jaw for the fact that the suggestion in Jim's words doesn't go straight to his crotch.  
  
“Like some champagne with those?” Jim comes around and shows him a bottle that's either luxurious as fuck or just designed to look that way.  
  
“Looks expensive.”  
  
“Problem?” Sebastian shrugs.  
  
“Seems like a waste on a guy who doesn't know what _cheap_ champagnes tastes like.”  
  
“Well, it certainly doesn't taste like _this._ ” Jim pours him a glass, places it on the table beside him. Takes a seat with a glass of his own.  
  
He swallows two of the pills dry. Leans his head back and feels the pain slowly go dull like an old memory.  
  
“So, Sebastian... I do hope you will accept my offer. See, I've been looking for someone like you for a very long time.”  
  
“I bet you say that to all the boys,” says Sebastian, cocks a brow. “But go on then. What is it you need from me?” He tastes the champagne, it's cold and smoother than expected. Across from him, Jim leans back with a strange smile.  
  
“Here's what, my dear...”  
  
  
  
This is where they begin.  
  
-

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as the beginning of a longer story, though I ended up losing my motivation for it but thought this could work on its own as a kind of MorMor prologue.


End file.
